


Disaster Recovery

by canis_m



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Characters making healthier choices than they probably would, Do I need to tag for top Liv or can we just assume at this point, F/M, Forgiveness, Getting Together, Intimacy, Recovery, References to Depression, Reunions, Ugly Sweaters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2019-10-17 07:36:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17556095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canis_m/pseuds/canis_m
Summary: Rafael Barba sees the Bensons playing baseball in the park with Peter Stone, and wishes he hadn't.  Things improve from there.





	1. Titanic, Meet Hindenburg

Curls of Noah’s hair poked out from the baseball helmet. His grin flashed as he beamed up, up, up at Peter Stone, whose first year of Little League had put him on a path to the pros, and from there to standing in a park with Olivia Benson, giving her son pointers on how to swing. Their faces were bright in the autumn sun. 

It was easier to look at their faces than hers, if only a little.

The thought arrived at a distance: it hardly mattered, in the end, that ADA Stone had failed to send his predecessor to prison. Not when he’d replaced him so thoroughly. Thoroughly enough to stand there, on a Sunday like today, in a park with Olivia and her son.

Rafael turned to go. Coming at all had been a mistake. He should’ve known better—had known better—but he was back in the city, and Manhattan was her jurisdiction, in the code of the heart as well as law. The longing to see her, even a glimpse, had swayed his scaffolds of self-preservation. He hadn't counted on Noah’s eyes being so sharp.

“Uncle Rafa!”

She didn’t miss a beat. She never did. Her gaze tracked Noah’s to its end. So did Stone’s, but Rafael wasn’t looking at Stone. He was watching the joy drain from Olivia’s face.

She looked at him like she’d seen a ghost.

Let him be a ghost, then. He’d do what ghosts did, what he’d done before. She hadn’t come after him then; she wouldn’t now, not with Stone there. Maybe a six-year-old had fewer inhibitions, but if Rafael heard flurried footsteps, a child starting to race in pursuit, he heard them abruptly halt. Well, Stone was a tall man. His reach was long.

Rafael didn’t turn again, and kept walking.

*

“I need to go,” Olivia said, but Noah was there, squirming in her arms, whining _I wanna see Uncle Rafa_ —as if Olivia’s inner toddler weren’t pitching the same fit, in spite of everything. In spite of months with no contact at all. 

She could catch up if she started now; no way in hell could Rafael Barba outrun her. But Noah couldn’t match her speed, and suddenly she didn’t want to leave him alone with, with Stone. Which was stupid. Senseless. There was no sense in any of it: Rafael’s phantom appearance, his disappearance, the churning, guilty tumult in her gut.

“Liv,” said Peter—said Stone. He was holding the bat Noah had dropped, hand halfheartedly extended. Olivia pulled away from him, clinging to Noah, who was red-faced, on the verge of fury or tears.

“Sweetie, it’s okay,” she said, automatically, though it wasn’t at all.

“He was there! I _saw_ him!”

“I know. I did too.”

Noah sagged in her grasp, still staring through the chain-link fence toward the street. "Why did he _go?"_

Because we let him, Olivia thought, both this time and the last—but that was untrue. If it were up to Noah, they’d be sprinting into traffic right now.

Sometimes it paid to take lessons from children. Olivia ignored Stone as she would’ve a fence post on the side of the road. She fumbled out her phone, conscious of futility even before _the number you have dialed is no longer in service_ sang in her ear. She sank to a crouch on the pavement, running a hand over the sleeve of Noah’s coat. The guilt in her gut refused to settle, and no amount of angry hurt could drown it.

"Because I let him,” she said.

Even when she shut down further attempts at conversation, Stone lingered. “Listen, Liv, I don’t know everything that happened—”

“No, you don’t,” she said. “You don’t get to weigh in here."

Excuses swam in her mind, the ones she’d been making all along: Stone was just doing his job. The trial was McCoy’s doing, not his. He hasn’t worked sex crimes; he’ll figure it out. He’s been through a lot, with his sister. He may have behaved badly, but he’s not a rapist. Excuses, allowances, one after another, when what she should’ve done from the start was go to Dodds and say: _You know what’s a conflict of interest? Making me work with a man who tried to put my best friend in prison for murder._

That window had passed. However much the wounded part of her denied culpability— _just doing my job_ —she was complicit. Doing her job didn’t mean letting every ADA who came along into her hard-won family. If she’d wanted a man around to swat baseballs with Noah, she could’ve picked one she’d never had to make excuses for, not even at his worst, until he vanished from her life.

And Stone was still hovering, obtrusively tall. "Thank you for coming,” Olivia said, as clearly as she could, “but Noah and I need some time right now.”

From the corner of her eye she saw his jaw set. He laid the bat on the concrete like a surrendered sword. When he was gone, she said, “Noah, how about you and I go get ice cream?”

He was in no mood for sugar bribery. “I don’t want ice cream! I wanna see Uncle Rafa!”

“You and me both, kiddo,” Olivia said. She picked up the abandoned bat, then pulled the helmet gently from Noah’s head. "But tell you what. Let’s get some ice cream, and then we’ll figure out what to do next.“

*

At Ben & Jerry’s they ordered scoops of Rocky Road and Chubby Hubby. One of the tiny tables opened just when they wanted a seat. Maybe it was a day for that kind of serendipity, Olivia thought, as she warmed her hands around her coffee cup. Maybe hope wasn’t lost, after all.

She paused to steal a spoonful from Noah’s dish. "Here’s what I think,” she said. "I think Uncle Rafa got lost for a while, and that’s why he didn’t come see us for so long. You know how scary getting lost is, right?"

Noah nodded solemnly. He was calmer now, and everything looked better over ice cream. "Does that happen to grownups, too?”

“It can.” If she was making more excuses, it didn't feel like it. She felt like she was starting to rebuild a crumbling bridge, one that was crying for repair at both ends. "And maybe he’s afraid we’re mad, or thinks we don’t wanna see him anymore. But you know what?" She leaned over the table, conspiratorial. "I’m a detective. I find bad guys for a living. I can find good guys, too." Including those who thought they didn’t want to be found. "So I’ll see if I can find Uncle Rafa, and then we can give him a piece of our mind, and tell him how much we miss him. How about that?"

Noah grinned around his mouthful of Rocky Road, a smear of chocolate on his lips.


	2. Home Visit

The basement apartment in Bushwick was a far cry from Rafael's old Tribeca highrise. Olivia caught a whiff of pot from a neighboring window, and elected to pretend she hadn't. She laid a hand on Noah's shoulder, then knocked at the door.

"NYPD," she said, voice pitched to carry. The neighbors' window slumped hastily shut. Noah giggled. At least one of them was entertained, thought Olivia. They waited, long enough that she began to wonder if the occupant was really so gutless as to pretend he wasn't home, until Rafael opened the door.

He was in jeans and a sweater, sleeves pushed up. His hair looked hastily combed, and a few days' stubble darkened his face, as if he hadn't managed to shave since—since they'd seen him last, on the far side of the fence at the park. For a heartbeat Olivia faltered, but Noah was undeterred: he lurched forward and flung his arms around Rafael's legs.

"Uncle Rafa!"

For once Rafael was caught speechless. Looking gutted, he stared down at Noah, then at Olivia over Noah's head. His hand wavered before it landed on Noah's curls.

He didn't ask how they'd found him. "Hey," he said at last, in a voice that sounded brittle with disuse.

"Hey yourself," Olivia said. Noah clung like a determined koala. She made no attempt to call him off, merely glanced at the apartment's interior. "New place, huh."

His eyes closed. When they opened again, they avoided hers. "It's, everything's a mess," he said, still hoarse.

Olivia bumped her shoulder against the door frame, affecting a casual lean. "Believe it or not, we didn't come here to rate you on your housekeeping. We came to see our friend, now that we know he's back, and to tell him we miss him. Right, Noah?"

"Yeah!" Drawing back, Noah hefted the plastic bag hung in the crook of his elbow, the one he'd insisted on carrying himself. "We brought ice cream."

The rims of Rafael's eyes reddened. The tips of his ears followed suit. He blinked rapidly, and his lips folded inward, as if trying to contain whatever they could.

Gently Olivia said, "Is he gonna ask us in?"

*

He hadn't been fronting about the mess. They found places to sit on the living room sofa, a rescue from his old apartment. Noah sat cross-legged on the floor. Over half-melted Rocky Road they got through the basics: what Rafael was doing (Legal Aid at the Brooklyn office, in juvenile rights), where he'd been (mostly Miami), how long he'd been back (less than a month). 

The gloves didn't come off until Noah asked to use the bathroom, and disappeared down the narrow hall. Rafael lowered his voice to a murmur.

"I thought you'd be upset with me," he said.

"Oh, I have been," said Olivia. "Still am. Furious, sometimes. But you know? Some things are bigger than that, Rafa."

He closed his eyes, as if the sound of the nickname physically burned. "You and Stone—"

"No," she said firmly. "Whatever you thought, it's not." She shook her head. "I've learned to work with him."

"'Work with.'" His eyebrows tilted with deceptive mildness, as if to say: _like you learned to work with me?_

Olivia drew a breath to steady herself. She reached for the excuse that was closest to truth. "The work is too important to me to give up."

"Right," said Rafael. "Sure you don't have a type? Former enemy with a jaw made of bricks?"

That did it. "As opposed to former best friend who forgot how to use a phone? Nine months of no call, no show?"

Rafael's mulish pose collapsed to a cringe. Olivia forced herself to breathe, and keep breathing, until the impulse to savagery subsided. His hands clutched the empty bowl on his lap. They looked away from one another.

"I shouldn't have said that," he rasped.

Olivia had to agree. "Okay, let's...table that. It's really not why I'm here." She watched him fidget wretchedly with his spoon. "Have you been seeing anyone?"

He squinted with bleary, baffled affront. "What? No."

"I mean a therapist."

"Still a no." Rafael peered toward the bathroom, distracted concern creasing his stubbled face. "I should go see if—sometimes the handle sticks."

"He'll figure it out," Olivia said. "Tell me this. When's the last time somebody gave you a hug?"

Rafael blinked. "Before Noah? My mother, when I got back. We're on speaking terms again, more or less."

"That's good to hear."

"Before that...you. At the trial."

His trial. The one where Noah's erstwhile baseball coach had made him cry on the stand. Olivia set her ice cream bowl aside, on the coffee table buried in papers and folders, laptop and peanut dish and empty glass. She did the same with Rafael's, then slid toward him on the sofa, lifting an arm.

"C'mere," she said, and folded him in.

For the first few seconds he didn't move, didn't breathe. Then he made a tiny sound, one that might've been _Liv,_ and his arms came up around her. A tremor passed through his shoulders. He inhaled raggedly against her hair. His chin dragged over her neckline, brushing skin.

Olivia's nose crinkled. "You're awfully prickly, there."

"It's camouflage," he muttered, clinging. "'M trying to blend in."

"With the local hipsters?" She smiled a little against his shoulder. If nothing else, he hadn't abandoned all personal grooming; he smelled clean and familiar, wonderfully good. When she rubbed his back, he made another small wordless sound. Then Noah reappeared from the bathroom, agitation growing as he saw the scene on the couch.

"No fair! You waited till I was gone!"

Rafael lifted his chin without pulling away. "Bring it in, buddy," he said. He grunted as Noah dogpiled onto his other side, and Olivia took a palm to the face before they settled. When Rafael snugged an arm around each of them, letting himself be thoroughly clinched, it struck her again that her kid really was full of good ideas.

"See," she told Rafael, with an air of complete authority, "we missed you a lot."

"You should come to our house," added Noah. "Our toilet works better than yours."


	3. Allocution

Rafael paused in the foyer of her apartment. He was slow to hang up his jacket and step into the room.

“You repainted,” he said.

Olivia glanced at the wall, the one lined with her bookshelves, now eggplant instead of off-white. "You know, it’s funny, I just…felt like there was some color missing from my life."

She made for the kitchen without watching him digest that. Lucy had taken Noah to the library, but they wouldn’t be gone more than an hour. If Rafael wanted to talk in private, he’d better get to it.

"Liv.” He spoke to her turned back. "I never meant…"

“Hold that thought."

Olivia drew two glasses from the cabinet, followed by the bottle of Glenlivet that had sat almost untouched for nine months. Rafael hovered by the sofa, hands in his pockets. He was clean-shaven, looking outwardly more like himself in sweater and sport coat, but the ease he’d once displayed in her living room—the certainty of welcome—had deserted him. He glanced around himself with the wariness of a stray cat.

"Sit,” Olivia said. She held up the bottle. “Drink?”

He sat gingerly. "If you’re having one.“

She brought glasses and bottle to the coffee table. Sitting at his side, she poured two fingers for each of them. Rafael’s knees tilted toward her as he accepted the glass.

"So tell me what you never meant,” she said.

“For it to go so long. The—radio silence.” He sucked in a breath, then took a drink as if to steel himself. "When I left it was because I had to. I knew I couldn’t be any use to you the way I was. My aunt has a place in Miami. She was traveling, said I could stay. I kept thinking I’d text you, call when I had something to show for myself. A job, an apartment. Some modicum of self-respect."

Olivia sipped. "You’ve got two out of three of those now.”

His look darkened. "Legal Aid needs bodies. If you’re breathing and passed the bar exam, they can overlook a little pulled plug."

Still working on number three, then. "Go on,” she said.

“Weeks passed. By then I knew I’d waited too long. The more time went by, the less possible it seemed.”

“To pick up the phone.”

“And the less likely that you’d want to hear from me.” He downed another swallow.

She was gripping her glass a little too hard. She set it on the table. "Did it ever occur to you I might be worried? Afraid I might wake up to a _Ledger_ headline about you face down in a ditch?“

”‘Disgraced Former Prosecutor Eaten By Alligator?’ Isn’t that a Shel Silverstein poem?"

 _Where the Sidewalk Ends_ was on Noah’s bookshelf. Olivia pursed her lips at the deflection, but said, "You’re thinking of boa constrictor."

"Plenty of those in Miami-Dade County.”

She shook her head. She put her hands on her thighs to give her something to clench. "First your voicemail was full. I tried to email you. It bounced back.“

Rafael lowered his chin, looking away. "There was…harassment. After the trial. From parties who objected strongly to my exoneration.”

Her heart lurched. "Harassment?“ she repeated. ”…Threats?“

After a reluctant pause, he nodded. Olivia set teeth to her bottom lip and shook her head.

"Rafael.”

“I may not have been thinking clearly at the time.” He turned the glass in his hands, then set it on the table. "Eventually it tapered off. My aunt came back from Patagonia, told me to stop sulking and get back to work. There were kids I could still help, she said."

"Sounds like a smart lady.”

“She is. The law may be a blunt instrument, but it’s the one I'm trained to use. I did some volunteering. Applied at Legal Aid. They didn’t want to put me on juvenile cases. I had to beg for it.”

Begging to be allowed to do penance, Olivia thought. The hard surfaces in her heart, the cracks and callouses were softening, even without a by-your-leave. “You changed your number,” she said, resistant. "I didn’t change mine."

"I meant to send you the new one. When I…”

“When you had your shit together.”

He turned on her with those soulful eyes. "I wanted to be better. If—when I talked to you. When I saw you again.“ His mouth moved in what wasn’t a smile. His voice roughened. "I’m not better, Liv.”

In her mind Olivia heard Dr. Lindstrom’s calm, rational voice, saying calm, objective things about depression and social isolation. They hadn’t done much to placate her, not at the time, but if she’d meant to give Rafael shit about stalking parks near her apartment instead of picking up the damned phone, the aim unraveled. It had been easy to be hostile in his absence. His presence—the sagged skin under his eyes, the unsettling air of loss that still clung to him—was harder to resent.

“If I know anything about healing,” she said, “it’s that it happens in its own time. You might be getting closer than you think.” His presence testified to that. She resisted the urge to reach for his hand. "I think we can knock your sentence down to probation. But I’m gonna need you to allocute."

She looked him in the eye. The softened places in her were seeping redly. Purgative, most likely, but they still ached. She let him see.

"You hurt me,” she whispered. "You understand that.“

Rafael held himself supremely still. He whispered back, "Yes.”

“You hurt Noah. That one—” She had to struggle for the next breath. "That one’s worse."

His eyes were bright with anguish, and the anguish was real. "I know."

"Luckily for you, he has a really big heart, and for whatever reason, he likes you a lot."

He didn’t try to look away. His eyes went glassy as they searched her face. "Does—” he faltered, swallowed. "Does his mother have the same problem?“

Olivia didn’t answer immediately. She reached for the bottle on the table, turning its label to face front. "I thought about pouring this out. Couple of times. But it’s good scotch. Still good nine months later. Decided I’d be pretty stupid to waste it."

When she turned back to face him, his tears were welling up and out. They caught in his eyelashes before he could blink them away.

"I’m sorry, Liv.”

She reached for his hands to squeeze them. "Then don’t do it again. Because if I reopen our lives, and you weasel your way back in like I know you will—" _like I want you to_ “—and then you drop off the face of the Earth again—”

“I’d sooner cut out my tongue.”

She gave his bundled hands a shake, partly in warning. "Easy on the theatrics."

"I mean it.”

He looked like he did. And sounded like it. Like at any minute he might fall to his knees on her living room rug and pledge fealty, the way a vassal would to a feudal lord. She shifted a hand to his knee to keep him in place, and when that seemed insufficient, wrapped her arm around him and tipped his body toward her, until his head came to rest on her shoulder.

Rafael let himself be drawn. He turned his face into the fabric of her blouse. If he was crying, he made no sound.

Olivia rubbed his arm, feeling its tightness slacken. "Even when I wanted to tear you a new one, I missed you,“ she confessed. She wiped the sting from her own eyes, then leaned her head against his and pressed her mouth to his hair. The scent of it filled her chest as she breathed, soothing on some deep bodily level. She felt Rafael’s breathing even and slow. "You didn’t say whether you liked my wall.”

“Too dark,” he said hoarsely. "Darkens the space.“

"I was afraid of that."

"You did it yourself?”

She shook her head. "Hired a painter.“

Rafael roused himself to sit up, turning to face her more squarely. "I painted my aunt’s living room. Terracotta and seafoam green.” At her raised eyebrows, he said, “It’s south Florida.”

She pictured it and had to smile. "That how you earned your keep?“

"You know what they say about idle hands. Maybe it helped. Meditation for people with hang-ups about meditation.”

She could hear Dr. Lindstrom in her head again, touting the benefits of mindfulness. "Have you thought about the other m-word?"

"Other than the liquid kind?” He picked up and waggled his glass. “Suppose I could go see my internist.” He eyed her. "Is that a condition of my probation?“

Tempting as it might’ve been to insist, Olivia shook her head. "Just…one of the tools in the toolkit.”

Rafael made a neutral noise, neither rejection nor endorsement. "Or I could help you repaint that,“ he said, nodding at her wall, as if one were a viable alternative to the other.

There it was, Olivia thought: the weaseling. Already in action. A small warmth started to pool in her—and maybe that was the scotch in her belly, but either way, it felt good. Like being home again, even though she wasn’t the one who’d left.

Her phone buzzed on the sofa’s arm. She glanced at the on our way text from Lucy. Noah would riot if he didn’t get to see Uncle Rafa. Maybe the weaseler could persuade himself to stay for dinner if she asked.

Together they considered the wall. "What color?” she wondered.

“You could still do some kind of plum, just a lighter tint.” He peered at the dining nook with speculation, and a light came into his eye. "Ever thought about saffron?"


	4. Rose Tint My World

Rafael was painting around the door frame when he heard the knock. It seemed too soon for Olivia and Noah to be back, but maybe time had flown; the task could be oddly absorbing. They’d promised to knock in case he was at a delicate stage of cutting in, or needed to move the ladder.

“That was quick,” he said, loud enough to carry. "Gimme one second.“ He finished the side he was on, then stowed the brush in the pail. "All clear.”

He heard a man’s throat clearing. Then: "Is Olivia there? It’s Peter Stone."

Rafael froze. His pulse pitched into higher gear. He set down the paint pail, suddenly hyperaware of the state of his appearance, his old Harvard sweatshirt’s pilled sleeves, now smirched with blotches of Butterfield yellow. But he had the home turf advantage. More than that, he had territory to defend. He leveled his shoulders, pushed up his sleeves, and opened the door.

Stone was in athletic wear, as he’d been last time Rafael had seen him, that miserable day weeks ago at the park. In one arm he held a catcher’s mitt. It was plain he hadn’t recognized Rafael’s voice, not through the closed door; on sight his expression went from stupidly blank to chagrined.

"Can I…help you,” said Rafael.

Stone took in the evidence of work in progress: the drop cloth, the displaced console table, the step ladder standing by. He grimaced faintly.

“I was looking for the lady of the house.”

“Uh-huh. She’s out.” And would be back shortly—a fact Rafael felt no obligation to disclose. Deadpan, but not without teeth, he said, “Is there a message you’d like me to give?”

“No, no, I. Shouldn’t have come by unannounced, I was just…in the neighborhood. It’s nothing urgent. I’ll talk to her at work."

"Right,” said Rafael.

The silence that followed stretched into a standoff, one that raised Rafael’s hackles even more, but Stone’s frown seemed to aim more inwardly than out. Finally he said, “Mr. Barba, let me just say—as a fellow prosecutor, I’m sure you’ll understand—it wasn’t personal.”

“Not personal?” mimicked Rafael. His lip curled. "No wonder you didn’t get the conviction.“ It was a good thing he’d put the paint pail down; it prevented him from dumping Sherwin-Williams Sunset over that insufferable square-jawed head. "Much as I’d like to reminisce, now is not a good time. I’ll tell Liv you darkened her doorstep.”

Stone bore the dismissal with as much grace as an overstuffed sack of potatoes could. "Thanks," he said. "Good luck with your—project.”

Rafael watched him retreat, then shut the door and locked it with a punctuating click. He stood there for a long moment afterward, empty-handed, making no move to reach for the brush.

*

Eventually he collected himself. His hands steadied again, enough to let him finish the cutting in. By the time Olivia and Noah came home, he'd finished rolling on the first coat.

“We got pizza!” yodeled Noah through the door.

“Sweetie, use your inside voice.”

“But then he wouldn’t hear us.”

Mustering a smile, Rafael let them in. "You’re just in time,“ he said. After the bustle of jackets and shoes being shucked, Olivia turned to regard his handiwork. She seemed impressed.

"Honestly? I wasn’t sure about the color, but I think I’m sold. Makes for a warm welcome.” She smiled at Rafael in a way that left him momentarily weightless—weightless and dazed—then set the pizza box on the counter. "Don’t forget to wash your hands, Noah."

"I know!”

Noah zoomed for the bathroom. Olivia washed up at the kitchen sink. In the quiet that followed, Rafael trailed toward her as she ferried plates and napkins to the table.

“You had a visitor while you were out,” he said. "Peter Stone."

She looked taken aback, then baffled. "You talked to him? Did he say why?”

“He did not. Said it wasn’t urgent and he’d see you at work. He was dressed to play ball.” Rafael laid his hands on the back of the nearest chair with false lightness. "I didn’t invite him to stay for pizza.“

Olivia shook her head. "No one was expecting that. I didn’t order enough for four.” She set down the last of the plates, then touched his arm. "You okay?"

With the touch came a measure of regret, as if she’d infused him with clarity of hindsight through the press of her fingers. Clarity and better judgment. His shoulders drooped.

"I wasn’t especially civil,” he said.

She puffed a breath. "Long as you didn’t get into a fist fight.“

"Around open paint cans? I’m not that loose a screw.”

She was smiling again—smiling with more private amusement than seemed called for. When he gave her a quizzical look, she said, “I’m not sure how to break this to you, but—” She lifted a finger. The finger hovered near enough to his nose that Rafael went cross-eyed trying to track its path. "You’ve got paint. Right there.“

Her finger tapped. Rafael blinked, then scowled.

"You’re kidding. How did I—” He rubbed furiously with his curled fist. How long had it been there? Had he been sneering at Stone with a paint-spattered schnozz? And now Olivia was laughing, if only with her beautiful dark eyes, almost certainly at him as much as with.

“Here,” she said. "Let me.“

She licked her thumb. Rafael went still.

She dabbed wetly at the tip of his nose, wielding her nail just a little. Its gentle scrape on skin made every hair on Rafael’s body stand on end. Her face wavered, impossibly close.

When the spot of paint was gone, she went on studying him. Her hand withdrew, just for a heartbeat, then returned to cup his cheek and jawline, fingers sliding under his ear.

Her breath ghosted onto his lips. Some obscure part of Rafael felt relieved at that; at least one of them had the presence of mind to keep breathing. Her fingers crept into his hair.

In a whisper she asked, "Is this a bad idea?"

His eyes shut without impetus from him. Don’t ask me that, he almost said, so as not to face the reasons why it might be, why it surely was a bad idea, chief among them his abject unfitness in his present state—but he’d _wanted,_ so badly for so long, and any part of him that might have raised a real objection was upended. If he’d known pink paint on his nose was what it took, he’d have bought a truckload of Sherwin-Williams years ago—and if Olivia Benson had at long last decided he was fit to be kissed, who was he to gainsay her?

Instead of speaking, then, he shook his head and let his palms find careful places on her sides, just above the rise of her hips. He tilted his chin.

Her mouth touched his.

It was brief, and soft, and the warmest thing he’d ever felt.

"Eww,” said Noah, from behind his mother’s back. Appalled, Rafael tried to pull away, but Olivia’s thumb in his belt loop had hooked him. Noah turned without concern toward the pizza box, opening its lid to peer inside. "Eww,“ he said again, with more violent disgust, "you got _olives_ on it?”

“Only on half,” said Olivia.

“They’re on both sides! It’s contaminated.”

“You can pick them off,” said Olivia. Her hold on Rafael’s jeans stayed firm.

“I’ll take care of your olives, Noah,” said Rafael, when he could manage (if only huskily) to form words again.

“You like them? Yuck."

But Noah lifted a slice onto his plate, seemingly resigned to grown-up grossness. Bright-eyed, Olivia slipped a hand around to Rafael’s back. For a dizzying moment she pressed closer, leaning into him. Her lips moved at his ear.

"Later, okay?"

Rafael nodded, and sat down at the table before his knees gave out.


	5. Holding Out

With a bellyful of pizza, Noah was down for the count. "But I wanna help paint,“ he mumbled, half whining, as Olivia settled him into bed for a nap.

"We have to wait while it dries,” she said, wedging Eddie by his side. "You can help when we paint the big wall.“

"The purple one?”

“Yep. Promise.”

Heaving a sigh, Noah closed his eyes and nestled in.

Olivia shut the bedroom door behind her, then returned to the table in the dining nook, where Rafael was cramming a few last rejected olives into his mouth. She sat down.

“So,” she said. Under the table her knee nudged his. She didn’t slide her foot suggestively up his ankle, but it was a near thing. "Think this counts as later?“

He smiled behind his napkin, wiping his mouth. "If you’re into pizza breath."

"I can lend you a toothbrush.”

The smile waned. Rafael folded the napkin and rested his forearm on the table. His brow creased, the way it used to when he was about to admit he was considering a plea deal, one neither of them would particularly like.

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this,” he said, “but—maybe we should wait.”

Olivia stared. At first she thought she must’ve misheard, and then a more bruising confusion set in.

“Okay. Sure,” she said, with false calm. "‘Cause I’d hate to rush into anything at this point.“ She sat back in her chair, unable for a second to look at Rafael. She’d been so certain—but it wouldn’t be the first time she’d estimated wrongly when it came to men. Wrongly and badly. She drew a strained breath, trying to understand. "Did I miss my window?”

“You didn’t.” His voice went quiet and low. Her eyes met his, and she knew she wasn’t wrong at all. "The window’s open. All the doors. The whole house. It’s all yours, Liv.“

The next breath came easier, without presentiment of pain. _All yours_ was more in keeping with the way he’d looked after she’d kissed him, the way he’d been looking at her since—since well before she’d been prepared to acknowledge it, really, let alone reciprocate in kind. She reached across the table and covered his hand with hers.

"Okay, so, talk to me.”

The furrows in his brow deepened. "Everything I said before applies. In triplicate."

"About wanting to…be better,” she hazarded. 

“At the very least you deserve a version of me who has his shit together.”

His tone made it clear he didn’t think he qualified. It was hard to hear, coming from him—not that she missed the days of oversized ego, exactly, but he’d swung too far toward the other extreme when it came to knowing his own worth. She couldn’t fix that, not on her own, no matter how much she might want to. 

That didn’t mean there was nothing to be done.

“I know it may not feel like it,” she said, “but from where I’m sitting, you’re already walking the walk. You’re working, helping vulnerable kids. You’ve spent the past however many weekends with me and Noah. Hell, you just painted my front hall like a pro.” She twined her fingers between his. "I understand you’re still working through things, but that doesn’t mean—" she paused, then forged ahead. "It doesn’t mean you can’t have love."

"Doesn’t it?”

“You already do. Whether we wait or not."

One of his eyebrows lifted, but not in disbelief. The shade of a smile lurked at the corner of his mouth. "Am I that irresistible with paint on my face?”

“You are. With and without.” She considered what other evidence to present. “While you were gone I ran into Brian.”

“Cassidy?"

She nodded. "He accused me of holding out on him when we were together. Said I was never gonna 'bare my soul’ to him.” A strand of hair fell over her eyes; she shook it back without letting go of Rafael’s hand. "I thought about that. About who in my life I could actually bare my soul to. The one person who came to mind was…incommunicado.“

Rafael pinched his eyes shut. He gave a muffled, heartfelt curse.

Olivia squeezed his hand. "I’m not telling you this to torment you.”

“You sure about that?"

"Maybe a little.” She smiled downward. "Mostly it’s to tell you where I’m at.“

His eyes had lightened, but the crease in his brow hadn’t smoothed. He drew a galvanizing breath.

"There’s another thing,” he said. “I saw my doctor. Started the prescription a week ago.” He hunched over their joined hands on the table, looking down and away. “Maybe it’s better to wait until I’m not actively messing with my brain chemistry.”

Of all the admissions Olivia hadn’t banked on, that was top of the list. Right up there with found a therapist I really clicked with. Rafael looked uncertain, or daunted and trying not to be. On someone else she might’ve called it scared. A heartened rush of feeling stopped her throat. 

"How’s that going?“

"Too soon to tell, I guess. No side effects that aren’t par for the course."

She squeezed his hand again. "I think it’s really good you’re giving it a shot,” she said, and some portion of the strain in his face eased. His mouth drooped.

“You don’t think I’m being lily-livered?”

“About waiting?” She shook her head. "If were up to me I’d rather kiss you again sooner than later. But we can take it as slow as you want.“

"It’s not a matter of ‘want.’”

“Well, that’s reassuring.” Letting go of his hand, she tipped her chin at the foyer. “How long till we can do the second coat?”

The change in subject visibly relieved him. "Two to three hours.“ His shoulders sagged, as if most of the tension in his limbs had come unstrung. He glanced vaguely in the direction of the hall. "I think Noah has the right idea.”

“What, nap time?” She searched his face. "You been sleeping okay?"

His head teetered sideways. His grimace suggested so-so at best.

"Go lie down, then. Put your feet up.” His glance flickered toward the sofa. “Not there,” Olivia said. "Not unless you want a crick in your neck.“

A heartbeat passed, and then his smile began to lurk again. "Did you just invite me to your bed?”

“I did,” she said. When she stood, he followed, making it all too easy to wind her arms around him. "C'mere, pizza breath.“ He shuffled in until their noses bumped. "Can I have one more to tide me over?”

At close range his pupils flared. "Just one? Is that gonna cut it?"

She kissed him to find out. It was deeper than the first, and longer lasting, and still it ended too soon. If there were any traces of pizza breath, they didn’t faze her—maybe she had it, too. He felt solid and good against her, and far more sturdy than he believed himself to be.

Their hips swayed into one another. "Maybe two,” Olivia whispered. Then, after two had lingered, “Maybe three.”

*

Her bedroom hadn’t been repainted. The walls were off-white, the curtains and quilted bedspread soft gray. The clutter was mild, and spoke of Olivia’s occupying presence: books on the nightstand, a hoodie draped across the dresser, a pendant spilling from the jewelry box’s rim. With the curtains drawn, the room seemed twilit, a space of separate, muted calm.

Rafael laid the knit blanket she’d given him on the bed. He peeled off his paint-dotted sweatshirt and untucked the t-shirt underneath. With a growing sense of unreality, he crawled to stretch out slowly on the bed.

As soon as his head met pillow, her scent enveloped him. Not floral, not herbal, not like any bottled fragrance he knew—just singular. Evocative of her and nothing else. Even with the feel of her mouth on his still thrumming in his senses, the scent eased more than it roused. Whatever places in him needed steadying, it soothed them, until they quieted like dumb animals at the assurance: _Liv’s here._

Because she was, if not quite here in bed with him—moving quietly through living room or kitchen, maybe, to let her son and not-quite-lover rest. She might’ve been in bed with him if he weren’t so craven, but maybe the sertraline was hitting harder than he cared to say, or maybe it was just his recent run of half-sleepless nights. Either way, he felt like he’d had one too many scotches. While his nerves still sang astonishment at having touched her, being touched by her, getting hard seemed like the prospect of a younger man. Younger and less washed-up.

Burying his face, he squirmed his hands under the pillow. If someone had told him five years ago that his first time in Olivia Benson’s bed, he’d be all alone and too limp to do anything but mope, he’d have scoffed. _For having lost but once your prime,_ simpered his useless brain, until he hauled the blanket up to his ear, as if cable knit could thwart the inner chorus.

In spite of everything, sleep pulled at him. The next breath carried her scent deeper through him, and the next and the next. With every _Liv’s_ here his pulse slowed. His last conscious act was to roll onto his side into a fetal curl, and bundle a fistful of blanket under his chin.

*

A knock at the door woke him. _Stone again,_ hissed his nether brain, and bile seared up his throat—but he was somewhere confusingly soft, with a warm presence beside him. Then he heard Noah’s stage whisper, faintly aggrieved:

“Are you guys kissing again?”

“No, sweet boy, Rafa’s sleeping.”

“Oh.” The stage whisper’s volume dropped. "Can I have applesauce?“

"Sure. Can you get it yourself? I’ll be out in a little bit.”

“Okay.”

The door shut. Shifting in his blanket cocoon, Rafael turned to face Olivia, who was sitting beside him, propped against pillows, dark-framed reading glasses perched on her nose. The former first lady’s memoir lay open on her lap. She’d changed into sweatpants and an t-shirt to paint in, and her hair was mussed from the pillows.

She might as well have been bathed in godlight. She saw him gazing up at her, and put the book down.

“Sorry we woke you.”

Even a couple hours of sleep had revised his mood. In their wake his present circumstances—circumstances that as little as two months ago had seemed beyond the realm of possibility or hope—struck him as miraculous. He was in Olivia’s bed, and she was smiling. Anything else was gravy.

“Worth waking up for,” he said. He yawned and stretched, toes flexing. “Is it time for coat number two?”

“In a minute." Her smile turned secretive. She took off her glasses, then scooted sideways and downward, cushioning her cheek on her folded arm. "I’m enjoying this.”

Her t-shirt was old and gray. A tiny hole winked along the seam of its collar. It occurred to Rafael that when she’d changed clothes, she might’ve done so in this very room, while he slept. His heart jaunted with a foolish little thrill. "Me too.“

Olivia curled her hand on his chest. "Tell me again about the doors.”

“They’re open,” he said, following her line of thought at once. "Every entrance. Every chamber of the heart."

"Is that from something?”

She’d always been hit or miss with allusions. It was part of her charm. "Sonnets from the Cuban,“ he said, increasingly foolish and increasingly glad. He was overdue for putting it in plainer words. He couldn’t think of a reason not to. "I love you, Liv.”

She leaned until their noses almost brushed. "I had a feeling,“ she said.


	6. Plus One

"Thanks," said Amanda, as Olivia handed over the bag that held Noah's old baby monitor. "Didn't even occur to me that I should've kept Jesse's."

"I didn't mean to keep this one," Olivia said. "Just threw it in the closet and forgot about it. Thanks for taking it off my hands." She straightened a pillow on the sofa and gestured for Amanda to sit. "You want something to drink? Coffee? I've got decaf."

"I shouldn't stay long, but—coffee. Please." Amanda eased herself down onto the sofa with more relief than grace. "I'm counting the days until I can have adult beverages again. Real coffee included." She shifted to regard the living room walls. "You really went to town with the colors, huh?"

Mugs clinked, and a Keurig whirred to life in the kitchen. "Yeah, I was encouraged to go bold."

"It's fun, it's...maybe a little more purple than I personally would wanna live with, but."

"To each her own," Olivia said, bringing over a steaming mug. She handed it to Amanda, then returned to the kitchen to brew one for herself.

There was a shuffle in the hall. Amanda craned her neck, expecting a sleepy-eyed Noah, when what to her wondering eyes should appear but a sleepy-eyed Rafael Barba—a Rafael Barba with _bedhead_ —wearing a sweater and rumpled pants. His stocking feet, in striped socks, halted on the wood floor. 

When he saw her, he blinked dimly, made a feeble pass at fixing his hair, then abandoned the attempt.

You didn't have to be a detective to tell where he'd been. Amanda's astonishment dissolved in a swirl of emotions too murky to sort. 

"Well, I'll be damned," she said. "Look what the cat dragged in."

Barba bobbed his chin upward by way of greeting. "Rollins," he said, as if he'd been gone a few days. A week at most. "I see congratulations are in order."

"They were in order a while ago," she said, eyeing him sideways, "but better late than never." She glanced at Liv, but Liv was still demurely making coffee. Barba trailed into the kitchen, as if lured by the smell, only to stand there blinking calf eyes at Liv.

"Go sit," said Liv, as if all of this were unremarkable. "I'll make another one."

With uncanny deference Barba wandered to the living room and took the chair by the sofa. Bleariness aside, he looked more or less as he had before his trial and the disappearing act that followed. A little more gray in his hair, maybe. About the same paunch around the middle.

"So how the heck are you?" Amanda said, when he showed no sign of opening conversation himself. "What're you up to these days?"

"Working for Legal Aid in Brooklyn," said Barba, as if that served to answer both. "Before that I was in Miami for a while."

"Family there?"

"Uh-huh."

Amanda glanced pointedly down the hall, toward the bedroom from which he'd emerged. "And now you're shacking up here."

He shot her a look, which reassured her—that this strangely subdued yet undeniably Barba-shaped person was still the man she knew. "No one's 'shacking.' I have a place in Bushwick."

"Bushwick?" She could hardly credit her ears. "Planning on opening an art gallery on the side?"

"He has been doing a lot of painting," Liv said, appearing from the kitchen. She pressed a mug of coffee into Barba's hands, then stood by his chair with a hand on its back. Her thumb strayed onto his shoulder and stroked it, proprietary.

Mouth twisting, Amanda shook her head, only half in disbelief. "Okay, now the purple wall makes sense."

Barba sipped. "It's 'Plum Dandy.'"

"Obviously." A thought struck Amanda as she eyed the two of them together. "You're back in time for the precinct holiday party. You should come. I'm bringing Al."

Liv seemed surprised, while Barba just looked blank. "Who's Al?" he asked. "The baby daddy?"

"He's my plus one," said Amanda, "and none of your business."

"So that'd be a no."

Either he'd turned into even more of an asshole during his absence, or he'd been gone so long she'd forgotten what he was like. He sipped his coffee in response to her glare. Liv looked like she was trying not to laugh.

Relenting, Amanda said, "You should at least let the guys know you're back from the dead. Carisi especially."

"Should I? I thought I broke his Catholic schoolboy heart."

Under the false lightness he sounded pained. She had to remind herself that he'd never actually been insensitive, not in the sense of being oblivious to what others felt. Just obnoxious. "Last I heard, Catholics do believe in forgiveness," she said with a shrug. "'Tis the season. But I'm not one, so you tell me."

He looked up at Liv, a silent question in his face.

"'Course you're invited," she said. Then she paused.

"And so's the current ADA," said Barba, as if to avoid speaking the name _Stone._

"He is," allowed Liv, and Amanda realized belatedly that there was a snowball's chance in hell of Barba showing up. She couldn't say as she'd want to eat sugar cookies with a guy who'd prosecuted her for murder, either. She was about to propose an alternative—they could meet for drinks, just him and the squad, like old times—when Noah came shuffling into the room, as bleary as Barba had been before. Liv went to his side and petted his hair.

"Were we too noisy? Did we wake you up?"

"No," yawned Noah, "I wanna see Aunt Amanda. Is Jesse here?"

"Not this time, bud. I only stopped in for a minute."

He made a beeline for her, extending a hand. "Can I touch your tummy?"

"Such good manners," said Amanda, with exaggerated approval. As she and Liv knew (Barba too, for that matter), it was never too early to teach consent. "And yes, you can."

His palm, small and warm, came to rest on her stomach. They waited, but there was no sign of a kick. "Maybe it's nap time," Amanda said.

"How much longer?"

"Next month," Amanda said. She looked dryly over Noah's head at Liv. "Believe me, it can't come soon enough."

As Noah withdrew his hand, Barba set down his coffee mug. "Come on," he said to Noah, rising. "Back to bed. I'll read you another chapter."

Noah waved goodbye as Barba shepherded him down the hall. When they were behind the closed bedroom door, out of earshot, Amanda raised her eyebrows at Liv.

"He got back earlier this fall," said Liv, which didn't answer the question, and both of them knew it, but Amanda let it slide. "Cut him some slack if you can, he's...he's done his time."

"For you, maybe," Amanda said, reserving her God-given right to be pissed at Rafael Barba as long as appropriate and humanly possible. Not only on Liv's behalf. She eyed her. "So what's that like?"

She couldn't claim she'd never been curious—curious enough at one point to consider conducting her own investigation. But early in Barba's tenure there'd been hotter no-strings options at hand—Nick, for one—and later it became abundantly clear that if Barba was going to risk the integrity of their cases by hopping in the sack with someone at SVU, it wouldn't be her. Pity fucks weren't her style, either, even if she'd thought Benedick could tear his eyes off Beatrice long enough to play along.

Turned out he didn't need her pity, after all.

This time Liv didn't evade. Amanda had expected sly, or maybe flip, but the response she got was a small, private smile, and then, much too honest: "Like being home."

Maybe she should've been prepared for that. It wasn't as if she hadn't watched the whole confounding thing unfold in front of her nose, in real time over a six-year span, but she'd also thought Barba might have tanked it by going AWOL. She'd asked once if Liv had heard from him, during the first couple weeks, and when Liv had shaken her head forbiddingly, she'd stopped asking. When had that changed, she wondered—or had it?

It stung a little that she didn't know, that Liv hadn't seen fit to confide. A prickly heat welled behind her eyes, more like the onset of a headache than tears. She was glad for them, she really was. For Liv, anyway, and in some future charitable mood she'd be glad for Barba, too. But when she thought of Al, and how being with him didn't feel much like being home at all—

"Hey," said Liv. "You okay?"

Amanda sniffed. "These fucking hormones," she said. She pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped. "I'm happy for you. You deserve to be happy. Again, a little more Plum Dandy than I'd want to deal with, but—"

"Yeah, I used to think that."

"To each her own," Amanda said. She mustered a tired smile. "I should get going. Thanks for this." She stood, laboriously, and picked up the baby monitor bag. "Can't wait to use it."

*

Olivia was on the couch, still sipping her decaf, when Rafael returned from Noah's room. She shifted her feet on the cushion to accommodate, and he sat in the spot Rollins had vacated.

"Thanks for getting him back to bed," she said.

He gave a small, dismissive headshake. "She took off?"

"Wanted to get home to Jesse." Olivia settled the soles of her feet against his thigh. It was thick, and firm, and warming enough even through the denim of his jeans and her cotton socks that she was enticed to slide one foot onto his lap. His hand moved to clasp it and begin massaging, pressing his thumb into the ball of her foot. She tipped her head back with a sigh.

"And another one on the way." His brow creased. "You get to run the show with only two detectives while she's on maternity leave?"

"Don't remind me. Fingers crossed for a quiet new year."

"I suppose any pinch hitter Dodds might send in would be more trouble than they're worth." He looked with vague dissatisfaction toward the door. "I should head out, too."

"Should you?" He hadn't stopped attending to her foot; the massage was delightful. She sidled her other foot onto his lap, careful not to skirt too close to his groin. He went to work obligingly.

"Family court at 9 a.m. Still have some prep to do."

"Maybe you should start leaving a suit here."

His mouth pulled flatly to one side. "You say this after I sleep through half our date night and refuse to attend your holiday bash?"

He still looked tired, even after his nap. The meds had been making him drowsy. In the spirit of date night they'd started to watch _To Be or Not to Be_ —he'd pitched it to her as a charming anti-Nazi Christmas comedy—and when he'd dozed off on her shoulder, complete with whuffling snores, she'd sent him to bed. Olivia chose not to examine whatever private satisfaction she got from ordering him there, or from seeing him curled under her blanket, head on her pillow, mouth slack. It might've felt naughty, watching him like that, if it weren't so ridiculously tame.

For his sake she hoped the side effects would ease soon. If nothing else, his tiredness seemed less strained, not the raw, haggard weariness of weeks ago. She smiled a little.

"It's not mine, it's the precinct's." He'd come to last year's party, only a year ago, a lifetime away. She remembered the red and green striped tie. The year before that it'd been red and green plaid. "The theme is 'ugly sweaters.'"

"Rules me out," said Rafael, brushing his cashmere sleeve.

"I bet you could find something."

He searched her face. "You want me to be your plus one?"

The idea of his attendance hadn't even occurred to her until Amanda brought it up, and she didn't want it if he'd only spend the whole time on edge, but still. "You know, if Cragen or Nick or Munch showed up out of the blue, we'd all be happy to see them." When Rafael looked unconvinced that he too ranked as an honorable retiree, she said, "I doubt Stone'll stay long. I could text you when he leaves." He made a face. "Too middle school?"

"Only if you tell me what he's wearing. I'd hate to be ugly sweater twins." His eyes narrowed like those of a stalking cat. She almost missed the slyness in them, until his fingers on her arches started to tickle without mercy. With a curse she jerked both feet back. "I'll think about it," he said.

Olivia tucked her feet under her in self-defense, then resettled beside him. She stroked the soft wool over his heart.

"You are my plus one," she told him. "Party or no."


	7. Adeste Fideles

The morning of the holiday party, Carisi was waiting in the squad room, face stormy, a copy of the _Ledger_ in hand. He rattled it like a saber at Olivia.

"You seen this?"

It had been one of those mornings—she'd barely gotten Noah to school on time, let alone looked at the news. The headline blared.

_Three Women Accuse NY Attorney General of Physical Abuse_

"Attorney General Derek Taylor?" Olivia's heart sank, even as her voice rose in disbelief. Carisi followed her into her office. "He wrote the state law making strangulation a felony. Drafted it himself."

"Yeah, well, turns out the guy may have had a personal interest," Carisi said grimly. "Read on."

She was halfway through the expose—and increasingly appalled—when her phone buzzed. She picked up.

"You've seen the news?" said Stone, without preamble.

"Reading it now."

"I'm meeting with the DA in five minutes. He's been talking to the Governor. I'll keep you posted."

She finished the article, and had to stand up and pace the length of her office. Her morning coffee roiled in her gut. First the ADA assigned to Sex Crimes—even if that accusation had been proved mistaken—and now the Attorney General of New York. She'd believed him to be an ally. Everyone had. The final line of the article, a quote from one of the victims, played and replayed in her mind. _Why report when your abuser is the head of law enforcement in the state?_

The jingle bell chorus of media calls started: reporters angling for comment from Manhattan SVU. "As of now, no criminal complaint has been filed," Olivia told them, one after another. "The DA's office is reviewing the allegations, and we're ready to investigate if called upon." Would the actions described in the _Ledger_ constitute assault, asked one. "If true, yes," she said.

Stone called back. "The DA's opening an investigation, but I won't be involved. He's appointing a special prosecutor."

Olivia kept her voice steady, free from any hint of relief. "Do we know who?"

"Not yet."

It was late morning when Carisi waved her into the squad room, jabbing his thumb at the TV. A sober news anchor presided over the scrolling ticker on Channel 1. _Developing Story: Attorney General Taylor Resigns._

*

By the end of the day she was in no mood to be festive, but she was ready for a drink. She caught Carisi emerging from the locker room, where he'd traded suit jacket and tie for a sweater in green, white, and red. An image of the leg lamp from _Christmas Story_ blazed across the front. FRA-GEE-LAY, read the knit text.

In spite of herself, Olivia smiled. "Must be Italian," she said.

"Gotta be." Carisi looked askance at the v-neck under her jacket, inarguably a sweater, if not an ugly one, in deep red. "Don't tell me you're pulling a Rollins."

"Excuse you, I heard that," said Rollins from her desk. She swiveled her chair to display the knit snowflake stretched gigantically across her belly. "Got a problem with this?"

"Try a little harder next time, will ya? C'mon."

"Here I am covering desk duty for the first hour of the party, and you're giving me lip?" When Olivia offered again to cover, Rollins waved a hand. "I'm fine. It's not like I can tie one on once I get there."

"We'll save you some eggnog, hold the rum," Carisi said. 

Olivia pivoted toward her office. "You go ahead," she told him. "I've got a couple things to wrap up."

The couple things included responding to Rafael's last text. _On the F train,_ he'd sent. _It's not exactly express._

 _No worries,_ she texted back. _Just heading to the pub now. See you there._

*

The back room of the pub was all Christmas lights and garlands, Bing Crosby crooning "Adeste Fideles" on the stereo, precinct officers with spouses in felt reindeer headbands. There was a pour-your-own eggnog station just inside the door. Ignoring the eggnog, Olivia ordered a glass of red from the bar, then made her rounds to greet the officers from Crime Prevention and Community Affairs, asking how their kids were doing, smiling and nodding at girlfriends and wives.

After the gauntlet of small talk she found her way to Fin and Carisi, who'd staked out a table near the wall. Fin shook his head as she approached.

"You call that ugly?" He flashed his lapels to display his own sweater, which featured Santa in sunglasses and the words YOU BETTER WATCH OUT blazoned ominously across the chest. "This is how it's done."

"That is indisputably how it's done," Olivia said. "Unfortunately, as lieutenant, I have to preserve the dignity of my office."

"Bullshit," said Fin.

"Listen, dignity in high office? We could use a little more of that," Carisi said. "Any word on the Taylor investigation?"

"Maybe Stone'll have an update when he gets here."

"I mean, the DA wants to move on this, right?" Carisi lifted his glass of nog. "Anybody need a refill?"

When they both declined, Carisi made his way to the eggnog station. He was standing there, bottle of rum in hand, when Rafael came through the door. 

There was no stunned silence, no pause in the buzz of conversation when he appeared. For most of the precinct's officers, the comings or goings of one former ADA who'd worked with SVU made little impression. Only Carisi stood frozen. Slowly he set down his glass.

Rafael's ears were flushed from cold. His overcoat swung open, flaunting the sport coat and sweater (not Christmas-specific, but eye-burningly striped) underneath. He'd stuffed his hands into his pockets, a feeble attempt at the swagger of old, only to draw up short in front of Carisi. His gaze darted until it found Olivia's. She gave a tiny, encouraging nod, almost too small to discern. 

He lifted his chin, then turned to face the FRA-GEE-LAY music. 

She couldn't hear what they said to one another, but a minute later Carisi lurched forward and wrapped Rafael in a lanky hug.

"Well, I'll be damned," said Fin. 

Rafael's entire torso stiffened. His chin barely squeaked onto Carisi's shoulder, and something like dumb animal alarm glazed his eyes. They rolled plaintively in Liv's direction.

Olivia set down her wine. "Time to go rescue my date."

But Carisi was already dragging Rafael toward the table: "Look what I found!" His head cocked at Olivia's lack of surprise. "You knew he was coming."

"I issued the invitation." She smoothed her hand up Rafael's arm, just for a second, knowing Carisi wouldn't miss it. "I'll get you a drink," she said to Rafael.

"Please," he said.

She poured him straight rum, no eggnog, and returned to the table. At close range she could get a better look at the sweater and its stripes: red, pink, grey, gold, brown, two different and not especially complementary shades of blue. After that she stopped counting. She pressed the glass of rum into Rafael's hand as Carisi and Fin gave him well-earned shit.

"Nine months, ten? You don't call, you don't write—"

"Nine months in Miami, and you come back looking like Casper the Ghost?" Fin scowled. "The hell's wrong with you."

"Myriads," said Rafael. He didn't quite down the rum in one gulp, but he looked as if he wanted to, badly. "My failure to tan is the least of them."

"Hey, it's been a tough year for a lotta people," said Carisi. "This Taylor thing is just icing on the cake."

"I've met him," said Rafael. "Couple of times. Before he was elected, and after." He stared darkly into the middle distance, then swallowed more rum. "You never know."

"Sometimes you do," Olivia said. 

Then Rollins appeared, smiling on the arm of her cardiologist boyfriend, who looked about as smarmy as Olivia had imagined. Rollins introduced her and Rafael ("My lieutenant, and her plus one") in the same breath. Olivia shook Dr. Al's hand firmly, doing her best to convey subliminal frostiness. Carisi extended his hand after her, smiling with his mouth but not his eyes.

While Dr. Al made game attempts to ingratiate, Olivia turned to Rafael. He seemed relieved to retreat from the limelight, but his glass was empty. He caught the offer in her look, and shook his head.

"I had a shot at the bar before I came in."

"Just one?"

He glared mildly. Smiling, Olivia looped her hand around his inner arm. "I'm glad you came." She patted before letting go. "I'll get us some water."

There was bottled water at the eggnog station, and someone had set out an industrial-sized bowl of pretzels. Olivia was scooping a cupful to bring to the table, bottles wedged in the crook of her arm, when she looked up to see Peter Stone striding through the door—

—and Jack McCoy two steps behind him.

Surprise rocked her. Stone's face was fixed in a genial mask, faintly pained around the edges. McCoy's good humor looked less forced, but he was a better faker. Olivia wondered, as she put on a smile of her own, whether he'd set his sights on the vacated office in Albany. If he'd donned an ugly sweater for the occasion, it was impossible to tell under his coat. 

"Gentlemen," she said. "Nice of you to stop by." Then, to McCoy: "To what do we owe the honor?"

"I make a point of crashing as many of these things as I can," said McCoy, who'd never showed up at a 16th Precinct holiday party in his life, at least not in Olivia's memory. He turned without erring toward the table where her squad was gathered, where Rafael stood with his back to the door, innocent of what was coming, the terse lines of his posture only just beginning to ease. His bare neck looked suddenly far too exposed, unprotected, and Olivia suppressed an urge to interpose herself, bodily if need be, between him and the DA.

Maybe Rafael felt her wordless warning, because his head turned. He saw. His expression shuttered and went blank.

Olivia preceded McCoy and Stone to the table. She set down her burdens, then stationed herself warily at Rafael's side. Fin's squint encompassed both Stone and McCoy. 

"What's this, the DA invasion?"

"Evening, friends," said McCoy. Without removing his gloves, he clapped Rafael on one frozen shoulder. "Had a feeling I might find you here. Have you given any thought to my request?"

The look Rafael turned on him was almost remote. "As I said. I'll need the weekend to consider."

"As long as you're considering the right answer."

Rafael's glance flicked to Stone, then to McCoy again. "Any number of ADAs could do it. ADAs currently in your employ."

"There's no one with your experience in sexual abuse cases," McCoy said. He sounded as if he were enjoying himself. Perversely, Olivia thought. "And no one I'd trust more to be unbeholden to any interest but the truth. But I didn't come here to pester you."

"No? Why did you?"

McCoy's eyes crinkled at the entire table, avuncular, beneficent. "To wish you all a merry Christmas." He stepped back with a final wave at Rafael. "Take the weekend. Call me Monday."

He snagged a pretzel on his way to the door, leaving Peter Stone abandoned in his wake.


	8. And the Soul Felt its Worth

Stone stayed for one drink, then trotted out an excuse and fled. Olivia and Rafael made their exit soon after. In the end Rafael seemed to register Stone's presence chiefly as a minor irritant. In their Lyft on the way to her apartment, his talk was all McCoy. 

"He called me." Rafael's gloved hands held the bag of takeout perched on his lap. "He knew just what to say. That I wouldn't be working for him, I'd be working for—"

"The victims," Olivia said.

"The People of New York." He glanced sidelong. "I wasn't gonna bring it up in front of the others. Didn't anticipate that little public charade." 

He didn't sound like a man pleased with his windfall of opportunity. "What are you gonna do?" she asked.

His eyes closed, then, and his head fell back. "That's why I said I needed the weekend." A furrow formed in his brow. He tugged one hand from its glove and lifted it to rub his temples, long fingers splayed.

She'd expected the party to try him, but not like this. "You okay?"

He grunted. "Migraine."

"You're kidding. It's been a while, hasn't it? You have something you can take?" 

"Not on me."

Olivia dug into her bag. "How about Aleve?"

He looked phlegmatic. "Better than nothing." There was a swallow left in his bottle of water from the party. He took two pills and downed it, then peered out through the window at the lights of 10th Avenue, squinting as if plagued by their glare. "I should go back to my place. I won't be much fun for the next few hours."

"I'm not expecting you to entertain me."

"You don't have to coddle."

"So I won't. I'll leave you alone. You can lie down and close your eyes and not think."

He shifted fretfully in his seat. "I didn't bring anything to wear—"

"You really wanna go back to your Bushwick basement?" Olivia asked, redacting an _all by yourself?_ "Be my guest."

Rafael gave no verbal indication of relenting, but she could tell by the softened way he turned to her that he had. His glance went to the open collar of her coat, where the red line of her v-neck lay against her skin.

"You do realize that sweater's not remotely ugly."

"I've been informed."

"It's the antithesis of ugly. You look..." He hesitated, unused to giving voice to such things. To being in a position that allowed it. He had to clear his throat. "You look beautiful. Like a thrill of hope."

Part of her wanted to laugh, to find his choice of compliments absurd—overwrought, possibly sacrilegious—but the greater part just felt warmed. "The weary world rejoices?"

"My part, anyway." He gazed at her, all too soulful. "McCoy told me I could hand-pick the investigative team. I told him there are complicating factors." The look turned mournful, and at least part of his dilemma became clear. Olivia frowned.

"Even if we disclose?"

"When you're investigating the AG, everything has to be by the book."

"Former AG," she said. "Okay, so I'm off the team. Fin and Rollins and Carisi are just as capable—"

"With your direction." 

"They don't need me around to do the job. You know that." He'd turned back toward the window, evasive. His brow creased again, probably with burgeoning pain. "That's not the only thing holding you back," she hazarded.

"Not even close." 

Olivia laid her hand over his. "Here's a thought. Table it. Don't worry about it tonight. Tomorrow we can make a list of pros and cons—"

"We?" 

It stopped her short, but he was crookedly smiling. "If you want my input," she said.

"Always do."

"You went nine months without it."

He shook his head, gingerly and slowly, as if wary of the consequence of motion. "I could hear you in my head, every day."

Olivia regarded the skip of her heart with mild exasperation. "Saying pick up the damned phone?"

"Among other things." He ducked his chin. "Carisi called me a son of a bitch."

"Before the hug, or during?"

Rafael's face suggested he didn't care to be reminded. She squeezed his hand. 

"It's a term of endearment," she said.

*

Lucy and Noah were on the living room sofa, winding up a _Fantasia_ rewatch that had nearly bespelled Noah to sleep. He woke up to say goodbye to Lucy, and hello to Rafael, but Uncle Rafa's presence had grown commonplace enough that there were no throes of excitement. Instead Noah contented himself with a hug, then let himself be herded to bed.

Olivia changed out of her work pants into leggings. She emerged from the bedroom to find Rafael by the Keurig, chugging from a mug.

"Caffeine," he said grimly. "It helps." 

He'd left their bag of takeout Italian on the table, abandoning it with a nauseated look. At the party he'd consumed only pretzels and eggnog. "Sure you shouldn't have something to eat?" Olivia asked. 

"Later."

From the laundry closet she retrieved the t-shirt and sweatpants he'd worn for painting, clean now, if still sporadically flecked. When Rafael finished his medicinal dosing, she pressed the clothes into his arms, and he shuffled off to change and lie down. 

The migraine might be ruining his appetite, but Olivia was starving. She reheated her order of chicken parm and poured herself a glass of Cab. She sat on the couch to eat with her feet propped, TV on, volume low.

With the nightly news came repeat Taylor coverage. She hadn't brought a copy of the _Ledger_ home, but the article was online. She pulled it up, reviewing the chronology. The most recent victim had ended her relationship with Taylor a year ago. Misdemeanor assault was out; they'd have to prove intent to cause serious injury. Even if there were medical records, as the article implied...she sipped her wine. Taylor would claim the hitting had been consensual, a BDSM-style bedroom game. She could picture Rafael—behind a desk in the DA's office, sleek and sharp as ever in a three-piece suit—shaking his head. 

But where there were three victims, there might be more. There might be more to the story than the _Ledger_ told. All the more reason to start digging.

Her phone buzzed on the arm of the couch. She glanced at the caller ID and answered.

"Carisi, what's up?"

"Hey Lieu. We got a Hudson student, came in to disclose. Forcible touching at a party. Says she wasn't getting anywhere reporting to the school."

"There's a shock. Do I need to come in?"

"Nah, we got it. Rollins is talking to her now."

"Okay, keep me posted."

"How's, ah, how's the man of the hour?"

Olivia's mouth twitched. "Down for the count with a migraine, but other than that."

"Oh, so he is at your place," Carisi observed, and Olivia huffed. "He's gonna do it, though, right? I mean. This is big."

"I don't know," she said honestly. "It's his decision."

"I'm not condoning what he did, with baby Drew, but that's between him and his priest. If I were gonna pick a prosecutor to head up this case...the DA's right. He's the best one for the job."

"I don't disagree with that," Olivia said, even as she wondered whether the reverse was true. Whether the job was the best one for him.

*

The bedroom was dark when she entered. She left the lights off, but went to the window and opened the blinds. By the night light of the city she took off her necklace and stowed it in the jewelry box. She drew sweater and camisole over her head, tossing hair back from her chin when it clung. She unhooked her bra and shed it, then pulled on a tank top from the dresser, all without turning to look at the bed. If Rafael was watching, or even awake, he gave no sign.

In the bathroom she took off her makeup, then stood for a moment, peering at her bare face in the mirror. Had he seen her without makeup before? Either way, he knew what she looked like unvarnished. Her eye fell on the extra toothbrush in its holder, now a fixture that seemed likely to stay. She suffered a pang of foolish gladness, and flicked off the light.

He was under a knit blanket, on top of the bedspread, in t-shirt and sweatpants and socks. When she crawled onto the open side of the bed, his face tipped toward her. She settled on her side, propped on one elbow, close enough to feel his body's warmth. 

She spoke softly. "How's the head?"

"Still attached," he murmured. Then, with more seriousness, "Better. It was a tame one, as these things go."

Olivia put her palm to his forehead. She stroked the lines of his brow, smoothed back the fringe of hair going rogue from its coif. Rafael's eyelids drooped. He nudged up into the caress. 

"This might be stating the obvious," she said, "but maybe your body's trying to tell you something."

"You think?" He shifted to eye her. "I thought we were gonna table that." 

"Did you actually table it? Or have you been in here stewing with a pounding head?"

He winced in admission. Olivia moved her hand to his chest, spreading it to rub over his breastbone, fingers grazing the fine gold chain where it lay. She wasn't sure which of them the contact soothed more. 

"Just so you know," she said, "whatever you decide, I'm in your corner. I won't think any less of you, either way. And I still think you should sleep on it." 

He heaved a sigh. "You're not wrong." His droopy gaze sidled down and up the length of her body, attentive to curves, and returned to meet hers without shame. A smile ducked at the corners of his mouth, not quite coy. "Thought you might be willing to distract me."

She walked her fingers from t-shirt collar to warm, bare skin. "I might. No more 'Honey, I have a headache?'"

"I'm all postdromal now. Basking in afterglow."

"We're not still waiting on your brain chemistry?" 

That put a stopper in his flirtation. He looked away into the dark. 

"Rafa," she said. "I know the potential side effects of SSRIs. I've done the reading. I don't care about that."

"Easy for you to say."

"I mean it." But she had some inkling of the inner force masculinity could exert, even the non-toxic kind. He'd wanted to be better for her. He'd wanted to be a hundred and ten percent for her, dick and all. "Have you actually...had trouble?"

He drew a labored breath. "The urge to fly solo hasn't really been in play."

Olivia considered. "Well." She slid her leg under the blanket. "This isn't solo. Maybe we can just...." She tilted her head in lieu of a shrug, then pressed closer, pushing the blanket aside. Her leg drew smoothly over his. It felt good and right to touch him, finally, properly, with as much of her as she could bring to bear. Her body lobbied for more of him. "Fool around? No pressure?" 

As his inhalation teetered, she eased weight onto him. She lowered her voice to a wisp. 

"I don't care what we do. I just wanna feel you."

Rafael made a wordless sound. He pitched toward her, hips angling into hers, and clutched at her waist to keep her close. His eyes were shining in the dark. 

"You're very persuasive," he said, as she cupped his face, and nuzzled into her kiss.


	9. O Night

They eased against each other without urgency. Olivia slid her hand to Rafael's back, rubbing down and up; after an instant's lag his arm tightened around her. He tucked his face where her hair fell, at the side of her neck. 

For a while they just breathed, both of them. Slow tidal shifts moved Rafael's shoulders. He sighed _Liv,_ with the kind of sigh that didn’t require an answer. She caught a dim trace of his cologne, like a memory of honey. It seemed implausible and unaccountable that she hadn't held him like this before now, here, in her bed. 

Her foot found the gap between his sweatpants and his sock again, and she sidled her bare arch against his shin. His hand spread warmth on her hip and flank, first above the fabric of her tank top, then under it. His fingers halted, just for a beat, when they met one of her scars. Instead of dwelling or fussing, he smoothed his palm over the wounded place, as if it both mattered and didn't. The bloom she felt was both comfort and heat. 

She rolled her full weight onto him, straddling. Rafael sucked in a breath and released it, then skimmed his palms up her thighs, face alight, verging on giddy. She looked down to survey him, smiling a little, between the curtains of her hair. 

If he'd worried about not rising to the occasion, the worry began to seem unfounded in short order. Olivia shifted her hips. 

"Feels promising," she said.

Rafael clutched as she swiveled. "You said no pressure." But he didn't sound aggrieved. 

She lowered her nose to his nose. "No—" her chest nudged his, and she rocked on him, deliberately, until his eyelids fluttered. "—Pressure at all."

A noise escaped him, not loud exactly, but so clearly involuntary that she froze—they both did. His drooping eyes flew wide open, and his glance flashed to the bedroom door.

Olivia didn't laugh. "He's a sound sleeper."

Rafael's pupils looked huge in the dark. "When's the last time you brought home someone vocal?"

She opened her mouth, and then shut it, because the answer was not in Noah's lifetime. Ed had been quiet as the grave. She tossed her head and resettled onto Rafael.

"You'll just have to dial down the volume."

He looked askance, and so blatantly doubtful that she couldn't help but plant a kiss on his contorted lips. That made them un-contort, and he nosed up for another kiss—longer, slower, with deepening intent.

Lazy and easy, that was what she’d had in mind. A rush and a fever pitch seemed like things for other people, people of fewer years and cares than they’d racked up between them—but Rafael was keyed up, too anxious about proving his utility to condone laziness, at least in himself, at least this time. It showed in the flares of his eyes, the occasional tremor of his hand before he touched. 

Even those struck Olivia as endearing. She kissed him again and again, and the wordless conversation of mouth on mouth occupied them. When she peeled off her tank top, and then his shirt, it proved a profound distraction, but at length he wormed his way downward nonetheless.

Chin at her navel, he looked up. “Does this fall under ‘fooling around’?”

Olivia shifted to shuck her leggings, then settled back on her pillow with one leg hiked. “I'll allow it.”

Her inner thigh cushioned his cheek. She let him go to work the way he wanted to, keeping a hand on him, neither pushing nor directing, just grazing her fingers front to back through his hair, until she'd made a beautiful mess of it. His mouth on her was heated, devoted. Her head tipped on the pillow when the giddiness hit.

"Had a feeling you'd be a prodigy at this," she murmured. The words caught in her throat.

"You’ve thought about it." His satisfaction sounded muffled, just shy of drunk.

"The past few weeks? You bet I have."

He stroked her thigh with a reverence that nearly undid her. Even in the forgiving dark, she almost had to look away. 

"And before that?"

"I tried not to tempt myself," she said, since it was easier on him than the truth. He huffed in a way that didn't sound fooled, and then he showed her what she'd been missing all along. What she'd been foolishly slow to covet.

If she expected smugness from him after, as she floated from the height, he offered none. He crawled up and nosed into her shoulder, looking modestly pleased. Looping her arm around him, Olivia fingered the wreckage of his hair. She told him again how good he was— _very_ —never mind if it stoked his ego. His ego could stand a little stoking tonight. 

After she'd caught her breath, she reached, not altogether idly, for the drawstring of his pants.

“Um,” said Rafael.

She paused. “No?”

“I didn't say that.”

“No, you said ‘Um.’” 

His voice careened upward in pitch; he’d forgotten about Noah completely. “Just as long as you're aware the cork may be stuck on this particular bottle of Dom Perignon; in fact my sense is there's a legitimate danger of implosion—”

Her hand on his bulge shut him up. When Olivia felt the size of him through the fabric—suspicions confirmed—her palm ached to fondle and squeeze.

She whispered at the curl of his ear, with as much affection as impatience. “Do I really have to say it again?” 

His lips clamped. 

“Or do you really wanna give up without trying?” 

He blinked, then turned toward her, the set of his mouth gone wry. 

“Do your worst,” he said.

*

The trouble, such as it was, turned out to be stamina. Not a shortage, but an excess. Thirty years’ worth of women’s magazine advice simpered in Olivia’s head— _stop trying so hard; just relax!_ —but out of respect for his travail she kept a lid on it. There were worse problems to have, she thought, than staying interminably hard. Still, after the third slather of lube she started to feel more like a medieval torturer than a lover, as Rafael sweated and flinched and arched on the bed.

"You are a tough nut to crack," she observed, without budging her hand from his shaft.

He cringed, both at her word choice and his recalcitrant parts. "Never used to be."

"Used to be a minute man?"

"Liv, please."

"Granted, I may be out of practice, but—"

"It's not youuu," he groaned, splaying a palm over his face.

"Are you close, though?"

"I've been close for _years._ "

"Sounds painful. Maybe you need a little extra...oomph." 

She scooted down along his body. Giving head wasn't her favorite sport, as these things went—not a chore, with an appreciative and mannerly recipient, but when you got down to it she preferred to put manflesh somewhere other than her mouth. But this situation seemed to call for delicacy. Special handling. She held him encircled with her fingers, let him feel her breath on the flushed, slick head. 

Rafael's knee jerked upward. He inhaled audibly through his nose. “I don't expect quid pro quo—"

“That’s not what this is about.” She let her breath inflame him. “Okay?" 

"If you w—ahh Christ," he blurted, with volume undampened, as she tongued him. 

"Easy," she soothed.

"Easy?" He sounded strangled. "Easy _how?_ "

It was hard to smile around the mouthful he made, and she really was a tad rusty. She pulled off, slowly and wetly, to nudge him teasingly against her cheek, smearing the corner of her grin. She slid her hand to his belly, felt it quiver with unrelenting tension. His chest heaved taut, harrowed breaths. She breathed his name, putting heat in every syllable: _Ra-fa-el._ She told him it was okay, no matter what, whether he came or he didn't, it was all good, and if he did he could come in her mouth and that was all good, too. When she took him in again, he barely lasted a few bobs of her chin. 

The volume was...voluble. Take that, sertraline, Olivia thought. She wiped her mouth, then planted a wet kiss on the side of his shaft before crawling to reach for tissues on the nightstand.

Rafael lay flattened to the sheets, looking more wrung out than stated. He threw an arm over his eyes. When it slumped away, Olivia was startled by the gleam of tears in the dark.

Maybe they should've held off, after all, at least until his post-migraine loopiness receded. "Hey," she said softly.

He closed his eyes, shook his head. His throat worked to swallow. At last he looked up at her again, the way he did, with too much heart.

"I thought you'd never."

“Thought I'd never get you off?” she said, unable to resist. “Or thought I'd never put your dick in my mouth? Oh ye of little faith.” 

His wince made her almost regret it. She cuddled against his side to take out the sting. She knew what he meant, and maybe it was mean to tease when he was post-orgasmic on top of post-dromal, on top of having serotonin out of whack. She stroked his disheveled hair. 

"I didn't give you much reason to think otherwise, did I. For a long time."

"Much?"

Any, if she were being honest. She'd kept drawing the line, so far and no farther, even as she drew him closer into her confidence, into the core of her life. She tilted her head: half acknowledgment, half shrug.

"I wasn't there yet. Before."

"I know you weren't."

It was why he'd only offered, never pushed. Olivia settled more thoroughly along his side. 

"I'm not sure I really got there," she said slowly, feeling for the words, "until after you left."

His eyes fixed on her. His chest had gone still under her hand. She traced the line of his crucifix chain like a thread through a maze in the dark. It was the dark, though, sometimes, that made admissions possible. 

“During the trial I was scared, but it was...surreal. It didn't make any sense that they might find you guilty. Then we won, and then you went away anyway." She caught the chain between her finger and thumb. “Like the song says. Don't know what you got till it's gone." When some blurred but huge emotion suffused his face, she tipped her head in warning. "That doesn't mean you're off the hook."

"I'll never be off the hook, will I."

"Will I still be giving you shit about it in our retirement home? Signs point to yes."

 _Our retirement home_ delighted him. He was no Brian: he could see himself growing old, see them growing old together. Mirage or no, Olivia could see it too. For the moment she was content with the vision. The corners of Rafael's teary eyes crinkled. 

"Abuelito can take it."

"If you think I'm gonna call you Grandpa in bed, you've got another thing coming. Young man."

"Ooh."

She eyed his wobbly grin. “Maybe now you can actually relax.”

His eyelids drooped, and he seemed to sink-sprawl into the sheets like a boneless cat. Then he blinked once, hard, and Olivia saw the exact instant when memory of his impending choice returned to him. His brow pinched, as if with the effort of ejecting it from mind. He rolled to smother his face against her collarbone, lolling, and didn't move again until his stomach growled. Loudly. He rolled to his back with a disgruntled grunt. 

Olivia gave a silent laugh. "Your osso buco's in the fridge."

"Care to join me?"

She shook her head. "I’m way too comfy where I am." When he looked glum but unsurprised, she thumped his flank. “Go feed yourself and get back here. You're not excused from cuddling, either.”

He groped for his sweatpants, casting a coy look over his shoulder as he did. "I wouldn't dream of it," he said.

**Author's Note:**

> This (still ongoing) ficbit series took on a life of its own, so I figured it warranted its own post. Thank you to all who commented and left kudos when it was part of "Sidebars"! 
> 
> Inspired by BTS photos from the episode that turned out to be "Dear Ben," and Olivia's repainted walls in S20.


End file.
